I had made a simple decision — but one heavy with consequences: to face Miranda alone. After everything I'd experienced with teams in territories twisted by organic horrors, I no longer relied on conventional assistance. Too many variables. Too many human flaws.
I brought only what was strictly necessary — at least, by my standards. Marcus, Birkin, Wesker Junior, and Luis would be stored in my mobile lab, ready to be deployed for analysis and medical support on-site. Their expertise would be critical if things devolved biologically — and in this world, that was a certainty, not a guess.
I also prepared my full arsenal of creatures, including new experimental units whose effectiveness I would test as needed. And above all… Zeus. My storm colossus, now equipped with a general-type Plagas. The result had exceeded expectations. His mass had grown denser, his electric discharges were surgically precise, and his gaze gleamed with an almost human intelligence. If there was one creature capable of turning the tide in a desperate situation, it was him.
But I hadn't become arrogant. Simultaneously, I had ordered the deployment of a battery of heavy artillery forty kilometers from Castle Dimitrescu. Guided, automated artillery calibrated to level an entire valley if necessary. If the confrontation went south, I would blow that section of the Carpathians sky high — with or without survivors.
On the tarmac, just before departure, Chris Redfield awaited me. His face was tight, tense. He greeted me with a nod, then handed me a top-secret file.
"Read this on the plane," he said, passing it over. "It's a report compiled from contaminated zones. Black mold. Very ancient. Spencer had already studied it in the past… and according to cross-referenced info with rare survivors, it might be directly tied to what you're looking for."
I took the file without a word, reading the worry in his eyes that he couldn't hide.
He placed a hand on my shoulder briefly. "Good luck, Gérald. And don't make the mistake of thinking you're immortal."
I raised an eyebrow, half-smiling. "Close enough," I said, before giving him a proper handshake. "Don't worry. This time, I've got backup plans — and more importantly, no hostages I care about on-site."
The plane had barely left the runway when I was already flipping through the file Chris had given me. My company's logo sat on the cover — scratched, wrinkled… as if it had passed through several nervous hands. Interesting.
I opened it. The first pages described a certain Ethan Winters, an average civilian, and his wife, Mia — a former employee of the Connections organization. The reports stated they had been recovered in critical but living condition after a highly classified incident in a remote property in Dulvey, Louisiana.
From there, the tone of the report turned clinical:"Subject Winters, Ethan — prolonged exposure to an unknown parasitic organic mold. Initial symptoms: tissue necrosis, abnormal regeneration, increased trauma resistance. Emotionally stable behavior despite trauma."
I raised an eyebrow.
A local officer — Dwayne Keller, infected with a controlled-type Plagas — had had the foresight to report the incident… just before being literally dismembered by the family patriarch, Jack Baker. The poor fool hadn't lasted two minutes against the abomination that man had become. His call didn't go far, but the Plagas signal was processed immediately.
"Thanks to logistical reforms implemented through the Plagas network — note: a direct result of your global strategy — the 12th American Division troops were able to intervene in under two hours."I smirked. Seems this report was meant for me all along — notes were addressed to me directly.
I felt almost proud. The quiet integration of Plagas into military infrastructure had boosted national response efficiency by 600%.
But the report turned darker the more I read.
Jack Baker. Marguerite Baker. Lucas Baker. Three humans entirely consumed by the black mold. Nothing left to save — mentally or biologically."Uncontrolled cellular degradation, fusion with third-party organic structures, production of mutagenic enzymes by fungal spores…"
They had been captured, sealed in plasma-combustion pods — note: a project launched by you: "Device No. 47 – B-Cinder model. Thermokinetic trigger using concentrated plasma."
A radical but effective solution. Fire alone wasn't enough. The living matter had to be disintegrated down to the molecular level. These pods had been deployed across the nation — over 20,000 units in the U.S. alone, ready for emergency deployment anywhere.
"Eradication operation successful. No activity reported after subjects' full incineration."
Only the survivors remained in question. The report mentioned only Zoë Baker, the daughter, and one Joe Baker — the uncle — both living too far off-grid to benefit from my Plagas-based health network. Their lack of infection was confirmed, though follow-up was advised. Zoë, in particular, had survived long exposure thanks to a prototype serum.
The last part of the report discussed Eveline, designated as an "experimental biological weapon, Type E," developed by the Connections. An artificial child, designed to infiltrate human society as a little girl… and convert them into fungal slaves.
"Total control failure. Eveline displayed an extreme parental control complex, leading to the complete ruin of the Baker family.Note: Emotional mimicry, but no real attachment. She saw her hosts as breakable dolls.Execution via napalm bombing to eradicate mold within a two-kilometer radius around the property. Full decontamination of a ship used in Eveline's creation."
I skimmed through the lines, frowning, noting the date: only two months after the global Plagas deployment had begun. The response had been swift and brutal.
Additional info: the rest of the Baker family had been relocated to Raccoon City. Zoë's metabolism was under medical analysis, without her being made aware.
That made me pause. Always that fine line between care and surveillance.
The Winters family had been relocated to Romania, to leave the U.S. behind and start anew.
I closed the file with a sharp snap, rubbing the bridge of my nose in exasperation.
"Why Romania for the Winters… fuck…" I muttered under my breath, eyes closed, letting the tension settle.Bad feeling. Very bad.
I decided to nap. The flight wasn't short, and I'd need my clarity.
5 hours later
"Mr. King, we'll arrive on-site in 15 minutes. Prepare to jump," announced the calm voice of the pilot through the intercom.
I sat up immediately, shaking off the last strands of sleep.
"Copy that. Lock the cockpit door and open the rear hatch."
A metallic clank echoed through the aircraft as the cockpit sealed off. The rear hatch opened with a hydraulic hiss.
I leapt into the void, greeted by the sharp, icy wind of the Romanian sky.
"Hermes!" I shouted into the wind.
My personal Aquila burst from the mobile lab with a piercing cry, allowing me to land smoothly on its back in an aerial ballet. We dove sharply down to the treetops, skimming over a dense, silent forest.
But peace didn't last.
Below, along a muddy path, I spotted several overturned vans. No logos, no plates. The drivers were dead — lacerated, clearly mauled with inhuman savagery. Their weapons lay scattered and useless on the ground.
Continuing on my path, a sound caught my attention. Growling… no, guttural howls.
Then I saw a scene straight out of a medieval nightmare: a man, alone in the ashen morning light, frantically drawing his handgun. Around him, beast-like figures leapt, with muscular limbs, dark fur, and fangs dripping with saliva. Lycans.
I narrowed my eyes, immediately recognizing the man from the file I had read on the plane.
Ethan Winters.
"Hermes, dive to the rear of the square. Stay low."
My Aquila obeyed without a cry, diving behind the rooftops. With a powerful flap of its wings, it snatched a Lycan mid-leap, hurling it away with a sickening crunch.
I leapt from its back, crashing through the tiles of a dilapidated house below. The landing was smooth. Silent. One knee to the ground. I looked up at the chaos.
"Let's not spook Winters…" I muttered to myself more than to Hermes, whom I recalled into the factory. I armed my modified shotgun — extended magazine, armor-piercing rounds.
I burst through the front door, downing two Lycans with a quick double-shot that splattered their skulls in a red spray.
"Over here, man!" I shouted to get Winters' attention. He turned abruptly, his blue eyes wide with panic.
He didn't hesitate and stumbled toward the house, clutching his wounded arm tightly. I covered his retreat, firing a burst outside before he crossed the threshold. Then I opened my palm.
Thirty Gunters surged from my factory in a blur. They launched themselves silently, devouring the distance to the Lycans. Their claws tore through the attackers like game animals.
I locked the door behind us. A relative silence fell in the room. The air reeked of sweat, blood, and gunpowder.
I finally got a good look at Ethan up close. He was panting, pale, one hand bleeding. A finger was missing on his left hand — a fresh wound apparently. But it wasn't the pain that had him on edge. It was me.
He pointed his weapon at me, hand trembling slightly.
"Easy, buddy. I think you know who I am," I said calmly, stepping forward with open palms. The dim light illuminated my face.
Ethan squinted, furrowing his brow. Slowly, he lowered his weapon, though his gaze remained sharp and suspicious.
"Gerald King… that's not possible. You're supposed to be… I don't know… in Washington? Geneva? Not here, in the middle of… this!" His voice betrayed controlled fear and heavy tension.
I smiled faintly, leaning toward the window to glance at my Gunters in action.
"I'm here to deal with a threat. I've heard a certain scientist is hiding around here… doing human experiments."
I turned back to him, eyes locked onto his.
"I'm not judging. I do the same."
He froze.
I raised a finger, as if to reassure him — or at least keep him from emptying his clip into me, since that might damage my outfit.
"The difference is, I improve humanity. I don't turn them into mindless, twisted monsters. Well… not the humans. I have made a few creatures in the process."
I motioned toward the window. Outside, my Gunters were finishing off the last Lycans with ruthless precision. One of them sliced a wolf cleanly in half, while another tore the head off a fleeing beast.
Ethan glanced out, then back at me.
His brow furrowed, lips trembling slightly.
"You… you scare me, Mr. King. We're talking about a horde of monsters, and you unleash other monsters. I don't know whether we should arrest you or thank you."
"How about we talk about you, my friend?" I said, sitting across from him on a half-broken chair. My voice softened, almost friendly, trying to pull Ethan — even for a moment — away from the horror pressing down on his shoulders. "Who are you… and what exactly are you doing here?"
He slowly looked up at me, face drawn, hands still shaking. A heavy sigh escaped him, filled with fatigue and sorrow.
"Yeah… yeah, that's right, I… I didn't introduce myself." He swallowed hard, then continued:
"My name is Ethan Winters. I came here to find my daughter, Rosemarie. It's been… a few days, I think? Maybe more. Time doesn't make sense anymore since this all started."
I stayed silent, letting him speak.
"Armed men came to my house in the middle of the night. They shot my wife right in front of me…" His voice cracked slightly. He looked away, blinking rapidly, then resumed more harshly:
"They took me. Me and my daughter. The last thing I saw was their leader… blond guy, cold as ice, wearing sunglasses."
I panicked a little — though my face didn't show it. Wesker, here? Of course. That could complicate things.
"I woke up in a crashed van, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by corpses. Then…" He ran a hand through his hair, collapsing into a chair with a groan of despair. "This village… this madness… it's like a nightmare."
He was speaking in a low voice, as if releasing something he had held in far too long.
I stood slowly, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Listen, Ethan. May I call you Ethan?"
He nodded faintly.
"I'm going to scour this damned region from top to bottom. I've got resources, and a lot of eyes and teeth at my disposal. If your daughter is here, I'll find her."
His eyes rose to meet mine, still wary… but with a fragile glimmer of hope.
I unhooked the shotgun from my back and handed it to him, gently.
"Here. Take this. It's modified to handle nasty beasts." Then I pulled out a reinforced phone equipped with an encrypted comm system. "And this phone. It links to me directly. If you run into trouble, call. I'll try to get you out."
He took the weapon carefully, clutching it like a drowning man clinging to driftwood.
"Thank you… I… I don't know what to say."
I straightened, my tone serious.
"Say nothing. I know how you feel."
He blinked, surprised by the weight of my words.
"I've felt that fear too. That emptiness. When they took my daughter, Lisa, I was ready to burn the whole world to get her back. You have no idea what I've done for that."
Ethan was staring at me more intently now. His gaze, once suspicious, wavered slightly. There was a silent recognition in his eyes. Not sympathy — no, far too soon for that — but a kind of understanding. He saw, beyond the cold and menacing aura of my creatures, something human. Another victim. Another father.
I smiled faintly, my expression feigning detachment.
"Actually… I have a little gift for you," I said almost nonchalantly, as I pulled out the Factory's transfer module.
Ethan frowned, instinctively on the defensive.
"A… what?"
Before he could react, a bluish light enveloped him, and he vanished in an ethereal flash.
Inside my factory, Ethan reappeared in a sterile examination room, still groggy. He staggered for a moment, looking around like a cornered animal, before four figures approached him: Marcus, Birkin, Wesker Junior, and Luis Sera. Dressed in white lab coats with their masks pulled up, they examined him like a rare patient.
"Well, look who dropped in," Luis quipped in his usual sarcastic tone, cracking his knuckles. "Alright, gentlemen, let's get to work."
"I want a full G-enhancement package for him," I ordered from the observation room above. My voice echoed through the speakers. "And inject him with a lieutenant-class Plagas. Stabilize his mold while you're at it. I want him to survive that village."
"Understood," Marcus replied, already prepping the injections. Birkin held up a triple-chambered syringe filled with an amber fluid streaked with violet sparks.
Ethan tried to resist, but Luis calmly restrained him with a surprisingly gentle grip.
"Tranquilo, amigo. We're not here to hurt you. You're about to become… something a little more than human."
The injection was quick. Ethan grimaced at the initial pain, his veins briefly lighting up with a red-gold glow. The fusion of the G-virus and the lieutenant-class Plagas occurred without rejection — likely aided by his already-altered mold-infected physiology.
As his body trembled slightly, Birkin spoke, eyes glued to the scanner.
"Incredible. His mold-mutated cellular structure not only accepted the fusion — it responded synergistically. The missing finger… is regrowing."
Within seconds, Ethan's hand fully regenerated, muscles, bone, and skin perfectly reformed. He slowly opened his eyes, still in shock. The air felt clearer, his breathing deeper. The fatigue from before had vanished.
I descended into the room, hands behind my back, eyes locked on him.
"There. A little boost. Now you have what it takes to find your daughter."
Ethan, still kneeling, looked up at me. He didn't know whether to thank me or fear me even more. Maybe both.
"What did you… do to me?"
I smiled, slightly amused.
"From one father to another — I gave you the strength to fight. Don't waste it."
(Author's note: Yeah, I skipped the part with the hillbillies — gives me flashbacks of horror movies like "The Hills Have Eyes" or "Wrong Turn," and that's not really relevant given how powerful Gerald is. So I just skipped it.)